Flowers

It Gets So Cold When You Look At Me That Way

You can't drive up to the edge of the cliff.  Obviously.  So we park our car  in the makeshift lot, and direct our way through the many signs warning us to bring water, to watch our step, to mind the sulfur levels in the air, and to mind our bladders now, because there are no restrooms beyond this point.  As we get closer to the start of the trail, the signs start screaming at us that it's a mile and a half walk to the viewing area, and that we shouldn't attempt to get out there if we aren't of able body, and seriously, there are no bathrooms out there, so go now or don't go at all.

There's a congregation of tourists gathering around the security shanty, asking the same questions and adjusting their fanny packs.  I wonder what the neighbors must think.

Yes, though it looks like the wasteland from some forgotten 80's disaster flick, there are people living out here.  It's strange to see the houses out here, perched delicately on top of the hardened lava flow.  There's no ground for gardens here, just black rock as far as the eye can see in every direction.  Every now and then you'll see a spot of green where baby trees have heroically pushed their way through the cracks and crevasses, reaching for the light of the sun.  I wonder when they built here.  I wonder what they lost.

"It's better at night," one of the volunteer security guards says from her temporary lean-to.  "Then you can really see the glow." (We do come back that night, and she's right.  When the sun sets the angry red glow lights up the lip of the cliff, and we can easily see when the explosive meeting of lava and water rockets cooling fragments up into the air.  It's also raining furiously, almost hard enough to sting.  Our shoes squelch dangerously over the uneven trail, and even with umbrellas our pants are still soaked up to the knees.  And still there's a strong handful of watchers when we get to the viewing area, and more a pulling in to the parking lot when we're getting ready to leave.  We tourists are a hearty bunch.)

The hike feels a bit like a pilgrimage, all of us following the signs, knowing where we're going but not quite sure how to get there.  The hardened lava is not all-together tricky to navigate, but you do have to watch your step - the toe of my shoe clips the rock more than once.  It's a miracle I never landed on my face.  And at the end of it all is the tall, white, billowing pillar of smoke.

Technically, I don't think it's smoke.  It's steam from the lava hitting the cool waters, and there's a lot of it.  I've never seen a cloud that big in person.  Not even when that gas line exploded and a fireball ripped through my old neighborhood.  That was big.  This is bigger.

Looking up, I can see little black specks circling the plume.  Birds?  No.  Helicopters.  Full of tourists, probably.  Any opportunity to take your money, I suppose.  Back in town, we find that a boat will take you to see the lava spill from sea level for a cool thousand.  I can only imagine what one of those copter rides would cost us.  

We're only allowed to get so close.  It's for the best, I suppose.  Otherwise we'd all be falling to our deaths, trying to get the best picture of the lava flow.  If you stand at the very edge of the viewing area, and crane your neck like this, you can only just imagine you can see the rush of lava flowing out of the earth and into the water.  The island is growing with every passing minute.  Under the roar of the wind, we can nearly hear the hiss of molten rock in the air.  Every so often there's a brief flash of brown at the base of the cloud, when the cooling rocks explode up the side of the cliff.  It's all a bit hypnotic. 

"They say it's better at night," someone says, and we all agree that when the light goes away, it must be quite a sight.  So we'll go back to town for dinner, we decide, and drive up here again after the sun sets.  We drive back down the mountain, never noticing the storms clouds gathering above our heads.

Boats at Sunset on Lake Michigan

Cox Arboretum Metropark

Cox Arboretum is a part of Dayton's Five Rivers Metroparks system, the same system that contains previous destination Carriage Hill.  The park promises the gardens to be in full bloom these days - my house is surrounded by green trees these days, so I'm looking forward to a little bit of color. 

I pull into the parking lot, keeping a watchful eye out for Zip, the border collie who lives and works in the park.  There are signs around the grounds asking you the please not pet him, which breaks this dog-lovers heart just a little bit, but too much attention can confuse and distract the dog, and Zip's got a job to do - he's meant to chase away destructive geese, and it's hard to chase birds when he's busy being adored by strangers.  There's plenty here to distract a person, though.  Dragonflies float between the reeds while the many, many lily pads bob on the gently rippling water.  

So many turtles.  Turtles sun bathing on rocks, turtles resting on logs, and if they can't find a dry spot, they rest on top of the shallow-growing aquatic plants, poking their heads out of the water to catch the sun's rays.  A turtle scurries across the path in front of me, and plop!  Drops into the water.  I don't see where he goes.

The rock garden is full of colorful flowers and bumblebees and signs politely asking that you NOT step on the fragile plants.  The post up ahead says "This Way to the Butterfly House!" but I'm too early.  The house won't open for another week or so.  Through the screened walls I can still see the butterflies flutter by from bush to bush.

The park promises hiking, and behind the butterfly house is the entrance into the trail.  I'm immediately swallowed by daisies and black-eyed susans, trees and birdsong.  The rest of the park melts away - the busy Dayton streets are still close enough that the hum of running engines hangs as heavy in the air as the full leafy trees.  A car tire bursts, and the woods shudder.

On my way back to the entrance, I pass the best smelling seat in the house.

Back at the parking lot, there's a Zip sighting.  He's lazily making his way past a sudden rush of incoming well-dressed patrons, finding the shade cast by the roof of the educational center to be far more interesting.  I don't blame him - there are plenty of trees in this arboretum, but the sun is relentless today.  I can't touch, but I do take a picture, and appreciate the lack of geese.

Sand it Black

Hawaiian Big Island.  Winter, 2008.

Punalu'u Black Sand Beach is an instant beach.  It's not really sand.  This beach, and many like it, were formed when hot lava from the volcanoes rapidly cooling and exploding when it hits the waters surrounding them.  The stones are smooth, polished by the years of being turned by the tides.  Maybe in a handful of centuries the grains will be worn down to a fine, proper sand.  For now you can feel them crunch and slide under your shoes as you walk along the shore.  The sand is fine enough to walk over with bare feet, but coarse enough to hurt when it gets stuck under your toenails.  I recommend you be properly shod.

And you wouldn't want to take to the tide pools without protecting your footsies, anyway.  This isn't really a beach you come to for swimming (and with sharp underwater rocks and little protection from the currents, you wouldn't really want to), so the big draw are the hidden pools tucked away in the larger lava formations.  The crabs may scurry away when your shadow falls over them, but the sea urchins aren't going anywhere.  The fish don't often make it up to the tide pools, but when they do, the sun glitters of their vibrantly colored backs.  Blues, reds, greens.  Little pools of rainbows. 

White pebbles pop against the black sand like stars against the night sky.   Visitors who've come before me have left behind simple messages - a stick figure, an initial, a cat.  I leave a little smiley face behind a rock. 

Local tradition says that those who take rocks or sand away from the beach (or the islands, depending on who's doing the telling) will be cursed by the fiery Pele until the stones are returned.  I've had a Pepsi bottle full of black sand for a year and a half without too much tragedy befalling me (yet) so I don't know how much stock I put in that legend.  Though a display case in the lobby of Kilauea Military Camp has a small collection of rocks mailed back to the island after their captors hit a wall of bad luck, so make of that what you will. 

(Interesting to note: while that's perpetrated as being an ancient belief, historians can only trace the myth to the 1920's.  They believe park rangers invented this little piece of fakelore to prevent visitors from packing their pockets with pebbles.  Maybe I should return that Pepsi bottle after all.)

Further up along the formations, too high for the waves to reach, the lava rock twists and turns, forming high peaks and shallow crevasses.  It's been raining since we've set foot on the Big Island, but we've been afforded this rare moment of sunshine, and the light casts long shadows across the lava-formed walls, making faces in the rocks.  Moss grows in the bumps and tubes - food for the tiny crabs that scuttle into their hidey-holes when we stand too close.

Standing at the lava's edge, we watch the waves crash into the rocks.  The water doesn't quite reach us, until suddenly it does, and we're too shocked to get out of the way in time.  Our toes squelch in our shoes, and it's starting to rain again.  It might be time to go.

Close Up

Because the best way to photograph a plant is from thiiiiiiis close.

From John Bryan State Park:

From Jinja:

From Hawai'i:

Down Among the Sheltering Palms

You're about to learn something very important about me.  

I think palm trees are awesome.

Never has there been a tree more photogenic than the palm tree.  Yes, New England is pretty in the fall, and coniferous trees are enchanting when they're covered with snow, and all trees look pretty when they're budding in the spring, but if you're looking for a tree with consistent style and personality, cherry blossoms have nothing on palm fronds.

Palm trees make everything better.  They're the perfect trees for sitting in the sun - just enough shade to keep you from overheating, but not so much that you shiver in the shade.   Not to mention the added benefits of coconuts.

Be honest, are you more interested in this location with the palm tree?

Or without?

I rest my case.

In conclusion, palm trees are the best, and if you disagree, I will fight you.  

Thank you for your time.